


darling i can’t seem to quit (completely falling to bits)

by dnbroughs



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Beach Divorce (X-Men), Canon Compliant, Coffee, Erik Has Feelings, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Poor Charles Xavier, barely though - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnbroughs/pseuds/dnbroughs
Summary: Erik takes cream in his coffee.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41
Collections: cherik





	darling i can’t seem to quit (completely falling to bits)

**Author's Note:**

> title from sweet dreams, tn by the last shadow puppets

Erik takes cream in his coffee.

To most, this, in and of itself, is unremarkable. It’s expected now, in the semblance of a routine they’ve created in Charles’s gilded upstate haven, that Erik will rise with the sun, jog around the grounds until his legs can barely stand it, shower, dress, and be down promptly in the kitchen before anyone else, allowing himself a good ten minutes to extend his powers throughout the house, feeling the fixtures and fittings before putting on his morning coffee. From there, he’ll brew it strong enough to stand a spoon in, pour it into the same Oxford University mug he had found in the back of one of the cupboards, the only one he’d deemed acceptable amongst the china, and then add a generous teaspoon full of cream straight from the fridge. After this he’ll watch the rest of the house wake and read the papers while the kids make their breakfast and chatter around him, knowing that as soon as Alex barrels into the kitchen, it’s time to turn the kettle on for Charles, who slumps in last, rumpled and squinting and not at all happy to be awake.

The younger ones don’t appreciate that just by knowing this, the mundane details of Erik’s day to day life, how privileged they are. Charles, however, does. Erik never stays in one place too long, not long enough to be comfortable, anyway. As soon as things become familiar, it’s a sign it’s time to move on. Being comfortable is a death wish in his line of work, a chink in his armour. Being comfortable means letting your guard down, and letting your guard down means you’re a target, and Erik isn’t one for being hunted. Charles knows, then, that the fact Erik sits in the same chair every morning, and allows them to know this, is a sign of trust, one that Charles rewards with a smile every morning.

Another thing that Charles acknowledges, is the fact Erik indulges. The cream he takes from the fridge is fresh and thick, bought by the one housekeeper Charles has kept on at the farmers market, inane enough to not be extravagant, but costing enough to be a little luxurious. This is an indulgence that Erik won’t allow himself in every other aspect of life. His clothes are high quality, of course, but that’s not only to blend in with the men he hunts, but to last. He eats more than most of them in the house, only rivalled by Sean after a smoke. He eats every morsel on his plate at dinner, and is known to be found snacking during the day and is usually picking at something when he and Charles play chess in the evening. Living a life not knowing where the next meal will come from has left him making the most of it while it’s there. Food is to be consumed rather than enjoyed, something to keep his body going rather than something to be enjoyed just because.

Erik, though, takes cream in his coffee because he wants to, because he likes to watch the liquid turn from black to the colour of the polished banisters of the main staircase, and if he adds more it’ll match the freckle on the centre of Charles’s nose, add less and it’ll still taste bitter enough to make him wince.

Indulging like this, it’s not practical. He’s not cushy, not at liberty to embrace luxury, and he won’t get into the habit now that he’s decided to stay with Charles and his ragtag band of mutants. Efficiency is key for Erik, to be in and out of a place within minutes, and indulgence doesn’t allow this. Indulgence breeds attachment and attachment makes you slow, at least that’s what he tells himself.

The fact of the matter is, it makes him feel guilty. Guilty that he’s straying from his goal to avenge his other, guilty that he’s put someone out of their way just so he can have some feeble enjoyment, guilty that someone like him is being accommodated for, is being  _ pampered.  _

Guilt, though, is not something Erik is used to feeling, it’s an emotion he doesn’t know what to do with. It makes his skin crawl, makes his gut tighten and he has to get it out, so he runs and he pushes young mutants off satellites and beats Charles at chess. Charles, who is luxury and comfort all wrapped in tweed. Charles, who buys ridiculous cardigans just because they look warm, who only smokes when he wants to, taking long pulls of the fag and inhaling deep, letting the smoke billow from between his (red, so red) lips in a silver wisp, ink stained thumb flicking the filter almost lazily, letting the embers fall to the ground in a merciful tumble. Charles, who looks at Erik like he did Cerebro, like he does at the crystal decanter of whiskey sitting between them; half with wonder, half with want, and absolutely with appreciation.

“You’re thinking too hard, my friend.” He says one night as Erik ponders this, as he watches Charles sip from his tumbler and eyes a curious flash of silver hiding under his shirt collar. Erik quirks a smile, one that tastes half sweet and half sour, and takes Charles’s knight. 

“I’d tell you to keep out Charles, but we all know there’s nothing stopping you from taking what you want.” And he sends him a barrage of images, his plump frame, his ridiculously large house, the plush chair he’s sat on, the pure copper in his belt buckle, the lazy grace with which he takes, not repentant, not ashamed.

Charles scoffs, his shoulders setting, and to most it would seem irritated, but Erik can see the glint in his eye, the fight or flight settling into his bones. “It may come as a surprise to you, Erik, but I don’t simply take everything I’ve ever set my eyes on and wanted.”

He captures one of Erik’s pawns in return and licks his lips and Erik can feel that guilt settling at the bottom of his spine. He’s opened a wound, and he can’t help but stick his thumb into it until it numbs. He laughs. “Name one thing you’ve wanted but haven’t taken Charles.”

Barely a beat passes. Charles looks up, his eyes as wide and clear as they were the first time they met, him dragging Erik from the water and into his arms; honest. 

“You.”

The acrid taste of guilt rises like bile in his throat as he surges across the table and crashes his mouth to Charles’s, licking his way in and plundering the space between them, and Charles gives as good as he gets, balling a hand in the back of Erik’s shirt and holding on for dear life, nipping and sucking until Erik is lightheaded. They make it back to Charles’s room somehow, and then Erik has him sprawled on the silk sheets, chestnut hair splayed on the goose down pillows, the plush mattress caressing every curve of him, Erik’s hands rivalling it for possession of the telepaths skin, white as cream and even sweeter. A St. Christopher medallion lies in the valley of his collar bones, and Erik feels the metal sing as he sucks marks into the skin where the chain lies. Charles’s is panting and squirming and they’re on the brink of war but Erik could care less, all he wants right now is the blue eyed man beneath him, wants to feel his muscles shift under the soft padding of his skin, wants to see what ridiculous shade of blue his eyes become as he unravels. So he does. 

Regrettably, neither of them last long, and in the sweaty, sticky aftermath, Charles’s arm slung over Erik’s chest and neither of them coherent enough to try and put their thoughts into words, Erik feels it again, the looming shame, but then Charles is kissing him again and trailing kisses down his chest and downdowndown until Erik can’t think, and then he’s slipping into a dreamless sleep. He has more cream than usual the next morning, licking his lips after draining the dregs of his coffee, and then mouthing at Charles’s skin, and he stays busy enough to keep his feelings at bay.

Two days later they’re on a beach and he’s forced Charles out of his head and there’s a bullet and a cry, and then he’s leaving. He’s alone with his thoughts and alone with his shame and then he’s gone in a cloud of sulfur, the image of rumpled sheets and blood stained sand seared into his brain.

They break out Emma, him and his new companions, and then they’re in hiding, laying low on the outskirts of a sleepy Mennonite town in Pennsylvania. Raven gets them groceries, shifting into the most forgettable face she could think of, and they lay low, figuring out where to go next.

He doesn’t sit in the kitchen anymore. He might sometimes, contemplating the plans spread over the rickety excuse of a table. Sometimes he’ll leave at the crack of dawn and not come back until noon. Most times he’ll keep to himself in his room, making plans or staring out of the window. He doesn’t linger, anymore. He doesn’t let himself get comfortable. Raven must clock onto this, but she never says anything. Nothing is the same as it was before, they both know that now. They both know they’ve not come out of this unchanged. 

One thing, though, stays the same in the wake of their new Brotherhood: Erik rises with the sun and wanders to the kitchen. There, he extends his powers throughout the house and brews his coffee strong and black before pouring it into a cheap white mug. Then he’ll open the fridge, and reach for the cream. His chest will ache, his eyes will sting, and he’ll pull his arm back. He’ll take the milk instead, add it to his coffee, and down it nearly all in one, barely tasting, uncaring that it scalds his tongue.

After a while, Raven stops buying cream.

After a while he stops making coffee altogether.

The guilt never goes away.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter @cherikisms !


End file.
